


A Blank Slate, Written With Moonlight

by avislightwing



Series: Candlelight to Candlelight [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Cyclical Construction, Developing Friendships, Gen, Origin Story, and that's part of the reason molly wears such wild colors, blatant misuse of liam's t-shirt from the other week, molly was straight-up buried alive, no one can tell me lucian wasn't a massive goth, spoilers for episode 14, they DEFINITELY didn't bury lucian in a coffin okay, who wore all black all the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:05:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing
Summary: A bloodhunter dies. A carnie is born. Mollymauk Tealeaf was born into moonlight and color, and he chooses to embrace both wholeheartedly.





	A Blank Slate, Written With Moonlight

_Wake up._

Silence.

He’s never been in such complete, suffocating silence. Has he? He can’t remember. He can’t remember where he’s from – or his hometown – or his _name_.

He exists, and nothing more.

_Wake up._

He claws at the dirt above him, his lungs burning. The earth starts weighing him down, wending its way into his nostrils, his parted lips. He tries to cough – can’t. His struggles become more desperate, nails breaking and stinging as they catch on rocks, trying to shift the weight of the world off his chest.

He is going to die before he is even born.

 _Wake up_.

In an adrenaline-fueled burst of energy, one of his hands punches through the surface, and he gasps a breath of oxygen into his collapsed lungs. A full moon shines down on the surrounding countryside. Around him, pines and junipers are gilded silver. Nothing looks familiar. Even his own hand, heather-lavender in the strange liminal light, with glowing scarlet eyes staring at him from the skin, is strange. He opens his mouth to cry out, ask if anyone is here, but all that comes out is a strangled sound. _Em-tee_ , he chokes out. _Empty. Empty._

 _Wake up_.

He drags himself out of the dirt. He’s wearing a strange, sober outfit:  dark colors and tightly fit clothing below a flowing black cloak. He wonders vaguely if whoever dressed him – the person who was in this body before he was _because it certainly wasn’t him, that isn’t him_ – always dressed like this, or if it was a special occasion. Either way, he sheds the cloak like a bad-luck caul, leaves it in a crumpled heap in the pine needles. He staggers against a tree, closing his eyes and breathing hard. _Empty_ , he mumbles again, and stares at his now-bare forearms. They’re littered with pale scars like he’d been cut into a thousand pieces and then sewn back together. He bites his lip until he tastes blood.

_Wake up._

He can’t stay here. He stumbles into the trees, pausing every few moments to cough a spray of dark dirt out of his lungs. He kicks the black shoes off his feet, sheds the silken vest, leaving him only in his slacks and shirtsleeves. With each step, he detests the person who had this body more, as he empties his pockets of coins and a silver pocket watch and a small steel knife stained dark with blood. His own blood? No – the other person’s. He isn’t them.

 _Wake up_.

He hears the raucous sounds from far off and stumbles towards them. There’s a lemon-yellow circle of light in the clearing, illuminating a collection of gaudy, brightly-colored tents. He hears the crackle of a bonfire, and the sound of laughter, and something in his chest eases. This is something that is _his_ , divorced thrice from the dark silk that wrapped him like a funeral shroud, as suffocating as the dirt that tried to kill him in the womb. The bright colors of the tents reach into his soul and soothes it. _Empty?_ he whispers, and instead hears _MT._ MT. _Empty. MT._ He must remember that.

_Wake up._

He drags himself into the firelight, and the people around it freeze. Someone cries out, and he flinches. But then a woman with pale skin, pale like the moonlight that comforted him, wearing beat-up black leathers, stands. Her eyes are strange:  one a dancing blue-green-grey of the sky after a storm, the other the grey-purple of the stormclouds themselves. He sways on his feet, and she steps forward to steady him – catch him. _Who are you?_ she asks, voice low and uncertain. _Do you need help?_ He nods, leaning heavily against her. _Empty,_ he whispers. _Don’t worry,_ she says, glancing around at the others gathered. _Whatever you’re running from, you’re safe here._

_Wake up, Mollymauk Tealeaf._

_And leave them at the bottom of the grave they dug for you._

**Author's Note:**

> oh happy day it's my first critical role fic be nice
> 
> Find this, along with a bunch of other stuff, on my Tumblr [@birdiethebibliophile](birdiethebibliophile.tumblr.com)!


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